


See A Coffin, Or A Man.

by thatstupidchild



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Sex, Mutual Pining, in which most of them are gay and all of them are trying to Be Better, mild mentions of past abuse, tags will be added as needed, this play needs more fan content 2kforever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatstupidchild/pseuds/thatstupidchild
Summary: Bolkonsky is still crazyMary is safeDolokhov is patientHélène is contentAnatole is betterMarya is ever-vigilantSonya is strongNatasha is wiseAnd this time, Andrei is hereBut what about Pierre?><<>><<>><<>><A Great Comet College Au





	1. And This Is All In Your Program

**Author's Note:**

> (this takes place after the events of the play, with given alterations in that it's in the US and the 21st century. I hope you enjoy!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a prologue written by my friend, writing buddy, and editor, milo! check them out @burnthebinary on tumblr if you want beautifully written great comet content :)

He saw her across the room, a smile lighting up her face as she watched the ways the dancers moved on the stage, the ways the voice blended together, harmonies so oddly dissonant and beautiful, haunting. 

Anatole was taken the moment he saw her, eyes widening as he nudged at Dolokhov’s side, attention no longer on the performance. Dolokhov ignored him, for the most part, clearly more interested in the performance. No matter, his mistake, Anatole decided, knowing he needed to get to her. 

Natasha had gone alone after Sonya had cited a migraine as a reason for staying home, and Andrei was busy, always busy, too busy for her. She sat alone, though in a group, her sisters from her sorority around her, though she wasn’t terribly friendly with any of them, choosing to stick closer to her roots. 

She had no reason to stay longer than necessary, finding the performance a little outside of her interests. Sure, she loved a good dance, a good show, but there seemed to be no plot, and with no plot, how was she to be interested in the story enough to stay?

Her sweater, borrowed from Marya’s wardrobe without the other woman’s consent, was on the larger side on her body, white, open-knit, a pair of black jeans and flats finishing the simple, elegant outfit. Anatole was taken, nearly immediately, by how stunning she was in a simple elegance. Not like his sister, her beauty earned in self-confidence and a sharp wit, or Dolokhov’s beauty, ruggish and distant and so utterly beautiful. No, her beauty was unlike one Anatole had ever seen, and he needed her. 

He crossed the room before she could leave, reaching for her wrist. “Pardon me,” he said, smile lighting up his face nearly immediately. Those in the immediate vicinity moved to give him space; some knowing his reputation, others knowing the look on his face more than him himself, the look of a man on a mission.

“Oh. Hello.” Natasha replied, startled as she turned. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?” 

Natasha was thrown off enough to nod, handing over her phone number. 

Three days later, Natasha was thinking maybe, just maybe, she was regretting it. But Andrei was paying her no attention, despite her attempts to start conversations with him, citing papers and homework for his reasons. Natasha needed attention, needed praise and validity, and with every Snapchat sent, every Instagram post, Anatole was there in seconds, validating her, praising her beauty, her personality, anything that made sense. And it made Natasha warm, giddy, the attention everything she needed. 

“What are you doing?” Sonya demanded, lounging on the couch, their eyes on Natasha as she blushed yet again.

“Nothing!” Natasha protested, as her phone lit up with yet another message, a smile spreading across her face as she quickly unlocked it, reading the multiple messages sent in quick succession. 

From Anatole, 10:23 PM  
That last post was beautiful.  
From Anatole, 10:23 PM  
You look beautiful.  
From Anatole, 10:24 PM  
I wish you’d let me take you out.  
From Anatole, 10:24 PM  
I know a place no one will know who we are.  
From Anatole, 10:24 PM  
Your boyfriend won’t know.  
From Anatole, 10:24 PM  
I need to see you, Natalie. 

Natasha hesitated. 

From Natalia, 10:25 PM  
Come pick me up?

She smiled, absently rolling her bottom lip between her teeth before she pulled herself up off of the couch, reapplying a shade of lipstick to her lips before she grabbed her purse. She forgot a jacket as she left, laughing a little when Anatole swept her into his arms, grinning madly at her. She forgot to pull away when he kissed her. 

She forgot to tell him she was taken when he suggested, three hours later they get married. 

She forgot to tell him, four hours later, that Marya worked at the closest church to campus.


	2. That Stupid Child.

“Good evening Pierre. Studying?”

“Yes. Why are you here.” The older student’s face showed distaste for the haughty, shallow child that had taken a place across the table from Pierre. His high, smooth voice grated on Pierre’s nerves where it would have made most others swoon. 

“Well, it's a library, is it not?”

“Cut it out. What do you want with me.”

“What do I…” Anatole trailed off, chewing his lip. Pierre finally paused from his notes to train his eyes on him.”You're smart. You know,” he paused again to grimace, as though the request was frightening to him. “You know how to be a better man than I am. I need your help.”

“Do not waste my time mocking me.” Pierre spat back, collecting his things in order to get away from Anatole. He walked out, fuming, and Anatole sat frustrated, fingers curling in and out in a vain attempt to keep a shred of courage and composure, before speeding after him. 

“Pierre. I swear I'm not mocking you. I need to be better I can't waste my life like this.” He said, panting as he caught up. “I can't be like this always. I hate it. I must be better or- or die.”

The desperation in Anatole's rushed words stopped Pierre. Gritting his teeth, he turned to Anatole. “I doubt this will last more than a week until you tire of it, but come back to my apartment. I will indulge in this for the chance of being the one to get through your thick skull.”

The cunning, sneering smile that he had expected was nowhere to be found on Anatole's face. In its place, Anatole looked truly grateful. 

It was unsettling to say the least. There wasn't the cunning glint in Anatole’s eyes that Pierre had become accustomed to seeing from him. 

As Pierre led Anatole back to his apartment, a block or two away from campus, he noticed that Anatole was not in his usually form-flattering dress. Where was usually skinny jeans and a form-fitting shirt, there was now sweatpants and a plain looking jacke, and Pierre had a creeping suspicion that he knew who's closet they were taken from. 

Between the clothing and the oddly genuine request, Pierre was lost. He had no idea what was going on with Anatole, and it was confusing, attempting to figure out what was going on with the normally conceited, shallow child. 

When they entered, Anatole did not make himself at home, but trailed close behind Pierre as if he was afraid that Pierre would change his mind and force him away.  
He beckoned the younger man to sit across from him at the small table in the kitchen, a mug of tea in front of each of them.

“Thank you.” Anatole said. He offered Pierre a small, genuine smile. Pierre was hit with a wave of emotion, one he couldn’t place until he recognized it, from a long time ago and another person; a wave of affection, however reluctant, about the younger man across the table from him. 

“That honesty is something you're going to want to keep up,” he said instead of a strained, 'you're welcome'. “If you're doing this for manipulative purposes, I will send you away. I won’t be complicit in your ruining of young girls.”

Wide-eyed, Anatole shook his head. “What? No, no I am really trying. I want this. I want to be- better.”

After a beat of silence, Pierre sighed and said, “the first thing I'll tell you is that you need to watch how your actions affect others. Don't take advantage of anyone to amuse yourself.”

Anatole winced and Pierre drew back, surprised and alarmed by this vulnerability on display before him. 

“The second is to actively appreciate the people who care for you.” Pierre continued, watching Anatole’s face, his expression. 

Anatole frowned. “So. Hypothetically.”

Pierre resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Anatole wasn’t nearly as hard to read as Pierre once thought; his motivation was far more obvious than he seemed to think. 

“Hypothetically, if I wanted to do something, ah, small for Fedya at first, I should clean our room more when I can and- why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You’re doing this for Dolokhov?” Pierre asked before he could think about what words were coming out of his mouth. Anatole shifted in his chair, the petulant, indignant pout returning to his face, not quite meeting Pierre’s eyes.

“I said hypothetically, weren’t you listening?” But he was flushed, drawn into himself just enough that Pierre knew that he was right. 

“Yes, of course. It… slipped my mind. But yes, cleaning up a shared space, making grocery runs.”

“I’ve already thought to do that.” Anatole said, and the stifled, childish pride he said it with made Pierre realize that, maybe the Kuragin children were more results of a bad upbringing than anything. It certainly made sense to Pierre, what with the exhibitionist streaks that Anatole and Hélène shared. Their need for attention, for the physical contact that sparked so many rumors of incest about the two. The way that Anatole was looking at him now. Looking for positive re-enforcement and affirmation that he was doing the right thing.  
Anatole really needed the guidance he was seeking from Pierre, the older man concluded silently. 

Pierre said none of this to Anatole, but smiled. “You should keep a list of things you can do.” He paused, thinking of Anatole’s sister without overwhelming spite for the first time in years. “You should include Hélène in this.” He said.

Anatole looked shocked at Pierre’s mention of his sister. “I have.” He said, eyes searching Pierre’s face for the answer of a question he did not know how to ask. “Hélène and I were- are fighting. It's not her really fault. Not really mine. We- we both hurt each other… we’re both trying. To be better I guess.” 

Pierre did not know how to respond to this omission. Anatole, across from him, looked upset by the memory and took a long drink from his mug, ineffectively trying to hide the quiver of his lip. His eyes were distant and misty with tears. So different from the shallow child he had come to hate, so dejected as he curled himself deeper into the overlarge jacket. It looked like Anatole was trying to shield himself from the world. 

“They don’t know I’m here.” Anatole said after the silence had stretched on for too long, the silence uncomfortable for them both. His fingers detached from the mug to ghost over a scar above his brow. The movement was subconscious, and it took Pierre a moment to realize why, his gaze flickering briefly to the paperweight on the shelf behind Anatole. He realized the memories this place held, and he winced, sympathetic. He refocused on the man across from him as Anatole spoke again, finishing his thought.“Hélène. And Fedya.”

“I won’t be violent towards you like that again. I,” Pierre swallowed. “I know that this had to be difficult to ask.”

Anatole’s hand snapped down from the scar as if he had been burned by the pale little line. He was pallid, and swayed forward dazedly. His fingers went white as he gripped at the mug in an attempt to ground himself. 

“If I’m supposed to be honest, I should tell you that I feel I had much more coming to me than that. Saying that I’m sorry for everything I did doesn’t make it better. But I am.”

Anatole hesitated, letting go of the mug for a moment before he reattached himself as though it would ground him, keeping him in the moment. He opened his mouth before closing it, eyes distant. He finally spoke, voice soft. “If I’m- I’m supposed to be honest, then I- I should say, ah, tell you that I didn’t expect- you to be so nice. So helpful. I know saying I’m sorry doesn’t fix everything. Apologizintg doesn’t make me better. But- this time I mean it. I’m trying to be better. And I am. Sorry, that is.”

All Pierre could do was stare at this new changing Anatole. This open apology was possibly the last thing he had expected to hear from a Kuragin, least of all the blond menace sitting before him. He sat frozen, as if any sudden movements would startle Anatole. Pierre kept his mouth shut as he struggled. Kept his eyes on Anatole, who was staring at the table, jaw clenched, as though the wood would offer him something to say. 

The silence stretched on for just long enough that Anatole stood, face still blank, if a little mournful. “Thank you, Pierre. Thank you for giving me this chance.”

Pierre opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the words to give Anatole a well-deserved response. “Thank you for trying to be better. Goodnight, Anatole,” he said when Anatole passed him on his way to the door.


	3. A Voice That Made Her Flush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Marya and Hélène and they! need more content.

Hélène sat alone in a café, hair down and hiding her face as she stirred her coffee. The brittle, snowy weather that usually spurred Hélène into a gleeful frenzy now only magnified the bitter loneliness rotting in her chest. A heavy fatigue that had seemed to sink into her bones after the fallout of the elopement, one that she couldn't shake with the warmth of another body against hers. Especially not with the dirty secret she now quite literally carried. 

Anatole was in the same despondent state, and foolishly, they had taken their feelings out in each other. Without Ippolit to force them not to yell, the two had lashed out. Hélène didn't know who had started it, only that she regretted every word.

The siblings had screamed such awful things at each other, and Hélène’s apartment had been full of crackling, roiling anger, until Hélène lost all control and told Anatole that he was well on his way to ending up like their father. 

Hélène bit her lip as she remembered how quickly the fight fled out of Anatole. How she watched her baby brother look at her then down at his hands in absolute horror. 

She had rushed away, unable to say anything else as she saw tears in Anatole's eyes and a question on his lips. 

He would have asked her if she really meant it. 

Hélène didn't know. She didn't seem to know anything anymore. 

Tears pricked at her own eyes and she wiped them quickly, hoping no one would see. 

Luck, unsurprisingly, was not on her side that night. Hélène glanced up briefly, sniffing, and locked eyes with Marya Dmitrievna, undoubtedly one of the last people she wanted to run into. Hélène averted her eyes and took a sip of her coffee, hoping to anyone that would listen that Marya didn't remember her from the night of the elopement. Or, at least, didn't recognize Hélène. 

Firm lips, painted red and pressed to Hélène’s flashed through her mind’s eye. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, and a hand gripping the back of her head, controlling her, tipping her head back to give Marya access to her neck. 

Hélène flushed, ducking her head down further as if Marya could read her thoughts. She crossed her legs under the table and swallowed, unable to push the memories out of head.   
She felt dirty and small as she remembered the pull inside of her. That treacherous ache in her heart at the memory of how firm but gentle Marya had handled her. Something that couldn't ever be. Hélène glared into her mug. 

“Well, there's a face I didn't think I'd ever see again.” Marya’s voice said from above Hélène. She jumped back, looking at Marya with wide, startled eyes. No one was in this dim back corner of the café, something that Hélène was both thankful for and apprehensive of.

Marya stood above Hélène, her strong hands on her hips. She looked pleased with herself as she studied Hélène, and her stern mouth was softened into what might have been a smile. 

Hélène was both thrilled and terrified. 

“Hello, Hélène.”

Hélène opened and closed her mouth, growing more flustered and flushed. Marya barked out a laugh as Hélène floundered. Tucking a stray lock of hair back into her intricate bun, Marya sat across from her at the small table. “Look at this, the infamous and charming Hélène Kuragina, blushing like a little girl. Don't be so nervous. We've been a little too intimate for that, don't you think?” 

“I- what?” Hélène’s mind went blank with shock. She had no idea what was happening. The Kuragins avoided Marya like the plague, even their sweet Ippolit, because they knew that she despised them. But now that Hélène knew that Marya had known it was her on that feverish night, she didn't know what to believe. All she could do was watch Marya’s lips curve up into a full smile, but it was softer, almost kind. 

“You look surprised.”

“I am. I'm- me, and Anatole,” Hélène trailed off as Hélène rolled her eyes. 

“Your brother is a stupid child, but he is away from Natalya now. I've learned more about you three since then.” Marya was looking at her with such kindness, and Hélène felt so vulnerable and open in front of her. She couldn't think of what Marya could have learned about her- about Anatole- to make her approach Hélène like she was. 

“I’m pregnant.” Hélène blurted without thinking and clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified at herself. Marya’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Oh? Is that the truth?” She said, and Hélène sniffled, rubbing at her eyes. She swore softly at herself. Crying in front of Marya was the last things she wanted to do, especially after that omission. 

“Yes. I don't know who- no one else knows. I don't want it.” She said and gripped her sweater where it rested against her hips, glaring down at it. “I don't know why I'm telling you this. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Stop it. Look at me.” Marya snapped. Hélène did as she was told, flinching back reflexively. If Marya noticed, she said nothing. Just reached across the small table to hold Hélène’s chin. Then her short red nails shifted, dragging over her cheek lightly. Hélène pressed into the contact as Marya’s hand cupped her cheek. “Will you come back to my apartment with me? You need someone to take care of you, Elena.” 

The use of her real name startled tears out of Hélène’s eyes. Marya wiped them away, a soft smile on her face.   
“Yes.” Was all Hélène could choke out. 

Marya stood, and before Hélène could mourn the loss of her hand, the older woman was taking her hands and pulling her up. Hélène allowed herself to be handled into her coat, and smiled through her tears as Marya held her arm and began to guide her. 

Hélène only half listened to Marya ramble as she was led into the cold. For the first time in years, she felt the warmth of security pool in her chest, and Hélène smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback and kudos are appreciated!!<3


	4. Or Simply To Open Your Heart To Someone-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pierre&natashabutsofter.jpg

Snowflakes fell around Natasha as she stepped out of the building of her last class. She breathed deeply, allowing the cold air to fill her; she began to make her way through the dim moonlight. Natasha’s tired feet, that should have been leading her to Marya’s apartment, started towards the right, towards Pierre's. Her eyes were drooping and the sky was long dark, but despite that, she was trudging towards Pierre’s home.

It was a longer walk, but the incentive of Pierre’s calm presence and the surprised smile he always wore when she showed up at his door spurred Natasha to a faster pace. He would welcome her in, take her coat, and hug her. She could wrap her arms around him and press her face into whatever soft sweater he was wearing that day. He would press a big hand to her back and move a plump arm around her shoulders. 

Natalia❤️❄️  
Hello Marya! I’m going over to Pierre's again<3   
Actual Mama Marya<3  
Ok, make sure that you two have dinner; I won't be playing delivery woman again.

Natasha smiled at the memory of Marya angrily rapping on Pierre’s door after Natasha hadn't responded to her about having eaten. Her phone had been cast aside for the sake of kissing Pierre without interruption. Marya had stopped grumbling after seeing Pierre's red face and Natasha's disheveled hair, opting instead to throw smug smiles at the two of them. Pierre would flush, Natasha would bite her lip, and the two would glance at each other. 

Anticipation rang through the air as she tapped her knuckles on Pierre's door. A smile spread across her pretty face as she heard him grumble distantly. 

“Oh, it's you!” The disgruntled look on his face fled as he opened the door to see Natasha. Without missing a beat, Natasha rushed into his arms. They wrapped around her as awkwardly as ever, and she laughed. 

“Of course it's me! I missed you today, Pierre.” She said breathily, and he pulled back to look at her with surprise. He was always surprised and stuttering when she admitted what she felt so plainly and openly. 

“I- saw you yesterday, Natalia.” He said, releasing her and offering his arm. Natasha wrapped a thin arm around his and laced their fingers together.

“Oh, I know, but I was so busy today! I wanted to bring you coffee after your Philosophy class.” And a small frown creased her forehead, then slid into a smile as she watched Pierre flush. “Well,” she said, unwinding their arms so she could press herself up on her toes and pull his face down to hers. “And bring you a few of these.”

Pierre laughed into the kiss, got a hold in himself, and lifted Natasha up, a hand on each of her thighs. The soft squeak that fell from her lips made the two laugh.

“There will be more opportunities for that, but now we don't have to work within the constraints of classes. Have you eaten dinner?” Pierre said, carrying Natasha to the kitchen and setting her on the counter. He knelt and began unlacing her boots, as if she was some sort of royalty. Her cheeks went warm with affection for the man beneath her.

“No, I wanted to see you as soon as I could.” 

Pierre chuckled, shaking his head. His heart felt so heavy and light with affection, it was a wonder it didn't burst wherever Natasha so much as crossed through his mind. “We’ll eat then. And then we can do- whatever.” 

Natasha grinned and hopped off of the counter. After pressing another kiss to his lips, she opened his fridge, calling, “I'll heat up the soup from the other night, can you get bowls and spoons, Pierre?” 

“Yes, my dear.” The noise of clinking porcelain and metal filled the air, joined not long after by the smell of broth. 

They ate at the table together, discussing their days. Natasha couldn't help but feel irreplaceable and amazing under Pierre's soft gaze. The swelling in her chest whenever she thought of him was unlike she had felt with any other man. 

“Did you love that bad man?” Pierre had asked her all those months ago, and every day Natasha became more sure that she hadn't loved Anatole. 

Without realizing, Natasha’s eyes widened and her hand went out to grasp Pierre’s. It all made sense in that moment, she understood that she hadn't loved Andrei either. She watched Pierre’s lips move around words that she didn't hear, looked at his scruffy, unkempt appearance, at the bags under his eyes, and she knew. 

She loved him. 

And Pierre trailed off, going silent as he watched Natasha’s eyes trace over his face. He knew she wasn’t seeing him. He knew to wait in quiet with her as she worked through what she was thinking. He knew that she would do the same thing for him, and had done it for him. 

Natasha didn't speak of what she was thinking, instead she came back to herself and leaned over the table to press a gentle kiss to Pierre’s lips. She wasn't ready to say it yet, but she knew she would soon. Knew that Pierre would be patient with her. “Sorry, what were you saying about your professor?” 

Pierre took his cue, kissing Natasha’s hand to get a laugh out of her, before pressing on with his story. She would tell him when she was ready, he knew this. And Pierre knew that he would wait an eternity to hear what was in her mind. 

Because, after all, he knew that he loved her.


	5. That I Cannot Help Loving You

Andrei couldn't help himself, watching Natasha and Pierre from across the library. Natasha looked beautiful and delicate huddles into one of Pierre's sweaters. She sat pressed against Pierre's side, fingers tapping against her laptop keys as Pierre read. Pierre, every so often, would stop to mark something in the margins, or to adjust his glasses on his nose, pushing them farther up the bridge.

Once in awhile, Pierre would nudge Natasha and show her something, and vice versa, and they would smile. And they would kiss. Their lips would press softly, they would smile. Pierre would make a soft comment, and Natasha would grow flustered, flattered. 

Andrei, against his own ingrained disdain, longed to be a part of it. 

After an hour of pointless, distracted glances at the two, Andrei left, irritated. He felt uncomfortably aware of everyone around him as he made his way back to his apartment. It was as though all of the thoughts that he didn't want to have about Pierre and Natasha were being broadcasted out to anyone who passed him. 

Images of Pierre and Natasha kissing seemed to morph into images of them kissing him. Him kissing them. Their movements growing passionate as the pressed closer together and their clothes-

No. None of that. 

Sitting on the other side of Natasha turned into the three of them tangled, sated and warm and sleepy, exchanging lazy kisses until they drifted. 

Andrei picked up his pace, hoping that the crimson flush of his face could be passed off as exertion or an effect of the cold wind. 

He held himself together until he shut his apartment door and locked it. 

A burning, roiling, acidic mixture of anger and loneliness and sadness seemed to split Andrei open, and he let out a raw sob. His fight with Pierre after he had found out how kind he had been to Natasha. The regret and guilt at having yelled at his best friend, at that moment his only true friend, which he hadn't allowed himself for almost a year. 

Andrei slid down the wall, clutching at his hair as if to tear it out. Pierre had looked so devastated. It was absolutely in Pierre's nature to forgive where Andrei could not. After all, it hadn't taken much convince him to refuse Hélène’s pleading for a divorce. Hadn't ever taken any effort for Andrei to convince Pierre of anything.  
God, how he wanted him in that moment. Wanted to wrap his arms around his friends wide stomach, to somehow convey how much he adored Pierre to the man. 

To have Pierre, against all odds, forgive him and welcome him back. Pierre and Natasha. 

And Natasha. 

Oh, Natalia. 

He had left her, the distance that he had kept only growing as time and miles stretched on between them. 

Andrei choked out her name, doubling over and pressing his palms over his eyes. What she had done was wrong there was no getting around that, but he had created the perfect climate for her to be manipulated. She was young and naive and sweet. She needed love. 

And what had he done when he returned to the aftermath of the affair and learned from Pierre that Natasha had tried to kill herself? Told Pierre that he couldn't forgive cheating, when he had told Pierre to refuse to divorce Hélène. Told him that Natasha's distressed attempt and ensuing sickness didn't matter to him. 

The two of them, abandoned by Andrei. It was no wonder they found such comfort in each other. Such love and security. 

Andrei’s shaking, heaving sobs stopped abruptly as the icy realization ran through his blood. He couldn't give that love. Not to her, not to Pierre.

Not to Mary, his always-forgiving sister. He couldn't give anyone the love they deserved. Too much of his father. There was too much of his father ingrained in him. 

This time, when Andrei wept, there were silent, noiseless tears. Tears of resignation and hopelessness. 

He fell asleep that night, only bothering to take his shoes off before he climbed into bed. The fatigue that had settled in his bones weighed him down until sleep dragged him under. It dragged him away from the pain twisting his heart. 

And if his dreams were soft and happy, filled with the faces of Natasha and Pierre, no one needed to know. He could spend the first hazy moments of his morning pretending that the tangle of blankets around him were the limbs of someone he loved. 

That the pillow he clutched was the torso of another. 

The coming days were a paradox of ease and strain. The ease came first; he would wake up, cold and apathetic and resigned. Andrei would not think of his wistful dreams during class, he would not go to the library to spy. 

But as his resolve faded and the days slipped earlier and earlier into night, he would find himself walking to Pierre's apartment. Tears would burn his eyes and Andrei would grit his teeth against the flood. 

There was nothing for him there. Just as there was nothing in him for them.

They could be happy and safe together. 

Andrei didn't dare let himself hope anything past that for them. 

Just the two.

Natasha and Pierre. 

And as far as they needed to know, Andrei wasn't there.


	6. Childlike Eyes

Fedya woke to a searing pain in his shoulder, and he sat up, gasping and clutching at the ghost of a bullet. The remnants of a dream scattered into the corners of his mind and he grunted angrily. Trust Pierre to ruin the little sleep he got. He laid back, closing his eyes in a desperate attempt at sleep. 

But the damage was done. Fedya reluctantly swung his leg out of bed, sitting up slowly as he stretched his arms over his head gingerly, wincing at the residual ache of his shoulder. He got dressed and made his way to their mini fridge and coffee maker.

He left a mug of coffee with a plate over the top to preserve the warmth before he let himself pour his own mug, nursing it in his hands far longer than it should have taken him to drink.

After he had eaten, he pulled out his wallet, remembering that it was his turn to get groceries.  
But it felt off, and he opened it with suspicion. 

There was a scrap of paper in Dolokhov’s wallet when he opened it. More specifically, there was a piece of paper was a few bars of music in Anatole's slanting scrawl, tucked around a wad of money. 

Fedya laughed, pleased and surprised at the turn the morning had taken. He looked over to where Anatole twitched around in his sleep, and then thumbed through the money, shaking his head in disbelief as he went. 

In total, there were three hundred dollars, and Fedya sat back, allowing himself to finally read the words under the music. 

“I think it's about time I started paying you back, eh?” The note read, and there was a small heart drawn after it. Anatole hadn't signed it, they both know he didn't need to. They were so fluent in the others ways, although Fedya payed more active attention than could be said for Anatole.

Still, the money was a pleasant early morning gift. Fedya had never expected a re-payment, and accordingly, he had never asked for it. 

Hélène had always scowled at Dolokhov's indulgence of Anatole's whims, in his demands of money and of their friendship. The Kuragins had more more money than he ever would, but nevertheless Fedya gambled and swindled money out of others to pay for Anatole's escapades, even dipping into his own bank to cover him. 

All for the sake of covering his affairs from Vasily Kuragin, Anatole’s father. 

He would refuse compensation money from Hélène, but this was something different. This was a show of vulnerability. The closest Fedya had ever gotten to a genuine apology sat covered in music notes, with a little heart at the end, and he would accept it. 

Anatole liked to think he passed himself off to everyone as smooth and beautiful and irresistible. But Fedya was privy to the childish, vulnerable truth. He saw the light quiver of Anatole's lip after getting off of the phone with his father. He held him through music-frustration-triggered breakdowns, through failed affairs. He watched Anatole come frighteningly close to disappearing out of his life, couldn't help but feel guilty at his own relief when each affair inevitably ended in varying degrees of disaster. 

But Dolokhov knew that Anatole cared for him too, in his own way. Serenades that weren't written for his studies, but just for Fedya as he walked in from class, would vary from day to day. Sometimes an improvement of the last, sometimes one completely different. 

There would be expensive coffees and breakfasts left on their little table during the mornings Anatole had earlier classes. 

He would pester Fedya to “stop eyeing the vodka and tell me what's on your mind,” when Dolokhov would think himself into a rut. 

Pale hands would gently take the laptop from in front of his eyes when he lost track of time, he would make sure that Fedya cleaned his teeth and changed out of his day clothes and then Anatole's voice, low and close to his ear would remind him to, “actually get some sleep, stupid.” 

Yes, he wouldn't leave Anatole even if he wasn't desperately in love with him. They were far too close for that.

The clear, high note of a violin broke Dolokhov's thoughtful silence, and he grinned as Anatole grumbled out swears at his alarm. He had to have been up late to sneak the money into Fedya's wallet, as Dolokhov hadn't gone to sleep five hours earlier.

“You could've just slipped it into my backpack instead of waiting up, fool.” Dolokhov said turning his head to watch Anatole rub the sleep out of his eyes. 

“I wanted it to be a surprise, and you're not supposed to be up yet.” Anatole said, sitting down heavily across from him. 

“Neither are you, fool.” Fedya said, raising an eyebrow and smiling. 

“I forgot to turn it off last night.” Anatole's trademark pout was dimmed by his happiness that his little scheme had worked. He gave it up completely to grin at the mug of coffee Dolokhov passed to him. 

“I won't refuse it, but you know that you don't have to do this.” 

“I want to.” 

Dolokhov was confused at the serious furrow in Anatole's brow, but he said nothing. Just pulled his phone out of it's transparent case and made a big show of slipping Anatole's note into it. The action effectively smoothed Anatole's frown, and then they were both smiling at each other. 

It was moments like this that Fedya wished that there was some way in the world that Anatole would want to settle with him. Wished that he could wake up to the grumbling close to his ear, wished that he could see the Anatole so open more often.   
Wished that they didn't have to be drunk to kiss. 

In the blissful, early morning silence, Fedya slipped back into his thoughts. 

He couldn't shake the oddity of the changes coming over Anatole. The money, the clean dorm he had come back to a day ago, how serious Anatole was about giving back to him. There was a reason for all of it, there had to be. 

Fedya studied Anatole for a moment. 

The blond head was tipped forwards just a bit, his eyes closed as he tapped out a rhythm that only hear could hear. His pink lower lip was pulled between his teeth in concentration and Fedya felt a flare of affection for his friend. 

Then he looked at the paper, then back at Anatole, and Dolokhov knew. 

The smile slid off his face into a stony mask, and he was thankful that Anatole wasn't looking at him. 

Anatole may not have known it himself, but Fedya saw it. The little gift as an excuse for attention, the “forgotten alarm” as an excuse to spend time. He was preening, and Dolokhov realized with a plummeting heart that Anatole was going after him. 

And that, really, Anatole's love wasn't what he wanted.

“I should probably head out early, I need to talk to Kirilovich about something.” His voice was flat and bordering on harsh when he stood. Anatole blinked up at him, confused and disappointed. But he stayed where he was, alone at the table. Watched Fedya with a silent frown distorting his pretty lips as he packed up his bag and pointedly ignored the slumped shoulders of his friend.

Fedya knew it was a jarringly cold contrast to the warm moment they had shared moments before. He didn't care. He didn't. 

“You- Fedya- why are you upset?” Anatole said softly. Dolokhov paused, his hand on the doorknob. He wasn't going to have that conversation, and he most certainly was not going to let the ruined moment make him upset. He had dealt with this for years, another one of Anatole's meaningless fixations wasn't going to make it all crashing down. 

“It's nothing, Anatole. I’ll see you tonight.” The words were monotonous, harsh, and quite obviously lying. But Anatole did not try to stop him as he left, didn't want to make it worse.   
He would press Hélène, he would even press his father, but with Dolokhov, there was always the chance that he would push too much, and Fedya might leave for good. It could almost be called love, the careful way with which Anatole sometimes treated him. 

But Anatole didn't love, Fedya reminded himself as the dry, cool air stung his eyes. Anatole wanted and lusted and took and took and took. Fedya knew that, maybe better than anyone. 

It was the idea of Fedya he wanted, then. It must have been, because Anatole wasn't capable of anything remotely close to genuine love. Whether it was the byproduct of his childhood as Hélène always told him, or not, Anatole couldn't be his. 

Bitterness born from frustration and longing made Fedya take the note out of his phone as he walked, crumpling the slip of paper and dropping it on the sidewalk. Anatole would tire of him, after all. This was just aftershocks of his fight with Hélène. Just a way to get his energy out, as all of their drunken affairs were. 

Fedya would give Anatole almost anything his childish heart desired, but he would draw the line at himself. Anatole couldn't have him; at least, not in the way he wanted him.

But those wide, glittering, childlike blue eyes flashed across Fedya's mind’s eye, and he growled at no one in particular. Hélène was right, though. Anatole did care in his own way. 

Fedya tipped his head back, tracing the straggling stars that still shone through the early morning light. He was not going to pick up the note. 

He was not going to pick up the note. 

Fyodor Dolokhov was absolutely not going to pick up that stupid slip of paper. 

“God damn you, Anatole.” Dolokhov hissed to the sky, and he went and picked up the note. Guilt and something bittersweet squeezed his chest as he smoothed the paper out. He'd keep it in his wallet, he settled. 

He'd keep it hidden away like everything else, and no one but him would know. Anatole would get over his crush in a month, move on to something else.

And no one would know that anything had changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @thatstupidchild on tumblr


	7. That It Never Can Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please this cocktail of soft emotion and pain ;)

“You can't be serious! You can't let her into the house!”

Natasha was fuming, thin arms crossed tightly across her chest as she glared at her older friend. She had come come to see Hélène in the kitchen, pouring hot water into mugs of tea. After she recovered from her shock, she had let out an angry shriek, and Hélène had nearly dropped the tea kettle in fright.

“Marya!” Natasha had called, “Marya, Hélène Kuragina is in our kitchen!” 

Marya looked bored by the situation as she entered the kitchen. Her red lips had curled into a look of distaste and one eyebrows was raised as she listened to Natasha rant.   
She'd held out a hand to Hélène, then to Natasha's horror, led her to the couch. This was too much, and counting the tender action as the last straw, Natasha followed the two, indignant.

“Natalia, it is my apartment. I can do whatever I please.” Marya said, stepping between the two younger women. 

Hélène let out a nervous, breathy laugh at Marya’s dry tone from where she sat on Marya’s couch, and Natasha attempted to swerve around her friend. Scarlet fingernails dug into Natasha’s arm as she was caught. Marya didn't need Hélène to have another anxiety attack, least of all in front of Natasha. 

“You think this is funny? You think you can lie your way into here and get away with it again? What, has Anatole decided he wants a second try-”

“Natasha! That's enough!” Marya put her hands on Natasha's shoulders, trying to turn her attention away from Hélène.  
“Calm yourself. Hélène is my guest, and you do not have to like it, but you must be polite. If you'd prefer not to, I'll help you pack a bag to stay at Pierre’s.” She brought her hard face dangerously close to Natasha's. “Do I make myself clear?” 

Natasha was silent for a moment, staring stubbornly at Marya before she deflated, shoulders slumping. “Yes. I understand.” Marya released her, and touched a hand to her cheek. 

“Trust me, Natalia. I wouldn't bring anyone here that I thought could harm you.” 

Natasha looked guilty. She looked down , biting her lip. “I know Marya. I’m sorry.” 

“It's alright. Now, go clean yourself up, you're supposed to go out to dinner with your cousin tonight, yes?” Marya said in an attempt to bring Natasha's attention elsewhere. 

“Yeah, I’ll go get ready,” and she kissed her friend on the cheek before bounding off, giving one last, bitter glance to Hélène. 

Marya turned her attention back to Hélène, who was still on the couch, looking uncharacteristically blank. She was staring at Marya without really seeing her, drawn into herself as though she wanted to melt into the red cushions. It was jarring how young she looked, more so than she had when Marya spotted her at the coffee shop, and accordingly, Marya walked over with a quiet caution. 

Hélène didn't register the cushions of the couch dip next to her. Didn't have the wherewithal to appreciate Marya’s silent companionship. 

All she could see was Pierre, drunk and angry and frightening. All she could hear was a deep, rumbling voice cursing at her, then at Anatole and then the sound of a paperweight hitting bone. All she could feel was muted adrenaline, stale from silence and years of time. 

Marya had told Natasha that she would have to stay with Pierre, which could only mean that the two were an item. 

Hélène could only struggle to push the bombardment of memories aside, and hope that Pierre wasn't a pathetic alcoholic anymore. That Natasha wouldn't know Pierre like Hélène did. 

Marya sat studying Hélène as she waited, tracing the lines of her pretty face and the intricacies of her eyes, deep and brown and filled with fire even as she was lost in thought.   
The sweater she wore, a red and black cable knit, hung off of her smaller frame in a way that made Marya want to let her keep the thing. 

And to hold her. Maybe even to kiss her.

It was an idea Marya was confident enough to entertain without embarrassment. After all, they had been so very intimate all those months ago. She was a powerful woman, she knew herself and how to handle her own emotions. 

Marya watched as Hélène began to shift and shake herself out of whatever place she'd gone, wanting badly to brush some of Hélène’s stray curls out of her face.  
Yes, she absolutely knew what she wanted. But she was intelligent enough to know that that moment was not the time.

Hélène blinked at Marya, dazed and vaguely panicked. As the memories were locked away once again, Hélène realized that as long as Pierre had a place in Marya’s life, there wouldn't be space for her.   
The thought wound a rope around her chest, uncomfortable and constricting. But she ignored it and slipped a mask of indifference on. 

Marya let her brush the moment under the rug, not wanting to reverse the small amount progress she'd made with Helene's trust.

“I had no idea that sweet girl had a temper Marya,” Hélène smirked, and Marya mirrored Hélène, in that the expression she wore was carefully constructed for the moment at hand. 

“Few do. It rarely shows itself, and she always was, ah, charmed by you.” 

“I imagine she was, there are few who aren’t, you know.” Hélène leaned back, arching and stretching her arms out. Her delicate hands laced behind her head, and it occurred to Marya that the girl was preening for her. 

Indulging herself and Hélène, Mary played along. A smiled curled on her red lips and she raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes Elena, I’m well aware. I’d have thought that much was obvious.” Marya watched, pleased with herself, as a faint blush dusted across Hélène’s cheeks. 

Red lips parted silently, the ghost of a question Marya didn't want to be asked dancing on them. She derailed, crossing her legs and straightening her back. That moment wasn't the time to speak about things they had done in a drunken haze last winter.   
Hélène shut her mouth with a snap, as she recognized what was happening. To her, it was a confirmation to her assumption about Pierre, and her chest hurt with the clear rejection. 

Marya simply allowed herself to mourn the lost opportunity. But it was necessary, after all. And Natasha was still just in the other room. She knew that there would be other instances, especially if she was reading Hélène correctly. 

“So, we have an appointment this Thursday.” Marya said, and she could practically taste Hélène’s anticipation and anxiety as it began to radiate off of her. 

“What time?” 

“Seven in the evening.”

“But you- said you were coming with me.” Hélène sat forward, resting her hands in her lap. She looked very young and small once again, looked like she couldn't help but ask for Marya’s companionship and support. Hélène couldn't help the raw emotion and need in her voice, and was disgusted in herself for it. “Your class doesn't end until eight.” 

“I have the choice to skip, and I plan to.” Marya covered Hélène’s hand with one of hers, squeezing gently. “I will get the notes I missed from a classmate, and I’m ahead in the reading. Do not worry about me, Elena.” 

Hélène’s eyes shone with gratefulness, and she let go of Marya’s hands to pull the older woman into a hug.   
“Thank you.” She said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Thank you for doing this for me.” 

“Of course.” Marya said softly, smiling in surprise.  
She took the chance to run a hand over Hélène’s hair, and was pleasantly surprised when she relaxed into the motion. So she played with the hair at the nape of her neck, running her short nails over the soft skin methodically. 

Marya was unaware hat she had begun to lean back until she was reclined against a velvety black pillow.   
Hélène had melted against her front, drowsy and peaceful and catlike. She could play pretend, pretend that this could continue past the abortion and her recovery.   
And so she did. Hélène imagined coming back to this every day.  
Imagined feeling so secure in being completely vulnerable around someone as she couldn't with anyone else, not even her brothers.   
The warmth of the moment ran through Hélène, slow and sweet like honey, and her eyes slipped closed. 

Her eyelashes brushed against Marya’s collarbone, and she smiled. She would deal with the heartbreak when she had to, she decided. In the time until then, she would take what she could get. 

Marya felt the same sweet exhaustion seep into her bones. Weighed down by affection for Hélène. She let her eyes flutter shut. Slowly, the warm girl in top of her and the security of the moment had her dozing off. 

Before long, the two were asleep, dead to the world around them, when Natasha discovered them. She had poked her head into the room to tell Marya that she was leaving. Surprised at what she found, she giggle during behind her hand, snapping a picture, and then making her way out. 

She couldn’t wait to tell Sonya how their strict friend had finally set her eyes on someone.


	8. With Kind, Glittering Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is, the softest thing ive written in my entire life i hope y'all enjoy

There was a girl watching Mary.

When Mary had first noticed the not-so subtle glances being cast towards her, she'd panicked. She had curled into herself, as if the back of her seat would cover her from the gaze. 

As it continued in the days that followed, she'd snuck a glance back at the girl, and was surprised to find wonder and appreciation in the gaze trained on her. She had unwound her hair from the braid it was in, letting it fall around her face to hide the pink flush dusting across her pale skin.

It was new and so pleasantly different. And when it continued. Mary started to crave it.

So Mary had begun to make absolutely sure that she was ahead in her last class. Just to be able to sneak glances back at the girl when she would dip her head down to take notes. Mary mourned the rare days when the girl wasn't in class, and she felt a rush of elation when she returned within the next day or so.

One night, when Mary caught herself trying to solidify the girl in her mind's eye, it had dawned on her. She had a crush. 

Letting out an exasperated noise at the dark, empty room around her, she pressed her face into the pillow she was curled around. Mary didn't have friends. She rarely spoke, rarely exercised her voice any more than was absolutely necessary.

But it was a month into the semester. A month of flushed cheeks and wide, wondering eyes glittering in Mary’s direction below red bangs. All of the insecurities swirling around in Mary’s head couldn't obscure the plain fact: the girl was into Mary.

Excitement ran electric pulses through Mary’s fingers, and she grinned, clutching at the fabric under her hands. She had nothing to lose in this, but oh, she had everything to gain. 

Mary awoke the next morning, the buzz of anticipation dumping an unusual dose of confidence into her. She ate quickly, taking her shot and then dashing into the shower. It was foolish, as the class that she shared with the girl wasn't until that night. But the burst of energy was too rare to pass up.

She picked a pale dress from her closet, slipping it over her head, and then pulling a brush through her hair. She didn't stop to look in the mirror other than to clean her teeth- didn't want to lose the rare good mood- and all but skipped out the door.

Classes passed too slowly, and much too quickly all at once, and then Mary was sitting in the middle of her French classroom. The high of her nighttime revelation had worn mostly away, and she was left with jangling nerves and sweaty palms. Mary did not, however, back out. 

As the girl walked in and sat down- one row behind Mary and two seats to the right- she was reminded of how immense this feeling she had was. 

With five minutes left of class, Mary took a deep breath. She bit her lip to keep from smiling, and brushed her hair away from her face in a way she hoped was smooth. Knowing that the girl was looking at her, she tossed her hair back, and caught the girl’s eye.

A little shock ran through Mary. 

She had known that the girl was beautiful, but it was the first time Mary had been able to appreciate her in full. The girl had sat stock straight in her seat, her red hair brushed her shoulders as she rocked slightly. Pink lips parted in surprise at being caught in her act, and she gazed at Mary with kind, glittering eyes. 

Mary felt her face heat up. Adrenaline pulsed like lightning in her chest, and everything in her was screaming to turn away, to wipe her now sweaty palms on her skirt and put her head down. But she ignored the anxiety thrumming through her, and smiled; lifted a shaky hand in a little wave.

She was rewarded by a wide, surprised smile. The girl waved back, and her hands continued to flutter after she dropped them into her lap. Mary’s heart pounded in excitement at this victory, knowing that the girl's face had not been that red when she first turned. 

Around them, their classmates began to move, packing their notebooks away with tired relief. Trying to keep contact with the girl, Mary shoved her things into her own bag, and pulled her coat on. 

The girl was doing the same, staring at Mary as if she was afraid that she would leave or vanish suddenly. But Mary was in no hurry to go anywhere without the girl, and she allowed her giddy smile to stretch across her face as the girl walked up to her. 

“You are beautiful,” the girl blurted before Mary could think to open her mouth. 

“I- oh, thank you,” Mary said, ducking her head. Her face was hot, and she was at a loss for words. 

“I’m sorry for staring, I couldn't help it. You're sort of distracting.” The girl said earnestly, then stepped close to Mary, placing a gentle hand on her arm. They were so close. Mary stared dumbly back at the girl, marveling at how much smaller she was, the top of her head barely coming past Mary’s chin. 

“I’m Sonya.” Her hand brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear, and Mary wondered how it would be to do it for Sonya. The thought sent a fluttery feeling up Mary's spine and she swallowed hard, suddenly breathless.

“My name is Mary. It's- nice to finally meet you Sonya.” Sonya let out a sound of joy then, hooking her hand into the crook of Mary’s arm. With a bounce in her step, she led Mary towards the door. 

“Oh! You had noticed. I was hoping you'd been looking back and that I wasn't alone.” She giggled then, and Mary’s chest swelled. 

Sonya had been planning all of this. Trying to get Mary’s attention. Quiet, plain and friendless Mary. But she decided that she would marvel at the fantasy she had stumbled into later. Summoning up the last dregs of her courage, she put a gloved hand over Sonya's as they left the building. 

They stopped at the base of the steps, turning to each other silently. Sonya made no move to let go of her, instead grabbing both of Mary’s hands tightly. 

“Do you- uh, would you want to go get something to eat? I mean, as in dinner tonight?” Mary said, her voice getting softer as her nerves began to get the best of her. 

“Yes! I- oh,” Sonya bit her lip, brow creasing. Mary’s stomach plummeted with dread, but Sonya was smiling again, already speaking again. “I just have to text my cousin and cancel.”

Mary gestured nervously, wringing her hands together as Sonya released her to pull out her phone. “Oh no, you don't have to-” 

“Mary, it's really okay, she’ll be especially okay with it when she hears that I’m going to dinner with the pretty girl from my french class.” Sonya winked, then turned her eyes back to her phone. 

An excited laugh burst from Mary’s lips, and Sonya looked up again to grin at her. 

Sonya pocketed her phone, clutching Mary's arm in the way she seemed to be fond of. Mary covered Sonya's bare hand with her own, and they were off, winding through the sidewalks under the stardusted sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you liked it!<3


	9. Something Terrible And Monstrous

Pierre had not expected Anatole to return for more advice. He had all but pushed the conversation to the back of his mind, because it was so unlike Anatole to commit to anything.  
And it was unheard of for him to consider self-evaluation, let alone try to see past his own selfish desires. But the high, smooth, “Pierre, wait!” That burst through the rumble of students as they left class forced him to rethink.

“Pierre- god,” Anatole panted, his hands clutching at the taller man’s forearm. “Ask me how much I never want to sprint across the courtyard after class.” Without waiting for an answer, Anatole rambled on, pulling Pierre out of the nearest exit. He was still breathing hard, his narrow chest heaving with exertion.

“I've been thinking about this since- well, since very early, and I decided that- oh my _god_ \- I need to talk to you again. I- need your- I need your advice again.”

To Pierre's great relief, Anatole stopped talking abruptly in an attempt to steady his breathing.

“So. You really are serious about this, aren't you.” Pierre said, interest and curiosity winning out over his exasperation. He grabbed Anatole's upper arm to steady him.

Still wheezing slightly, Anatole nodded. “When could we talk? I can work around you and your- whatever you have going on.”

 _Your girlfriend_ , Pierre supplemented inwardly, and he was once again shocked by the consideration Anatole was showing him. And not only him, but Natasha as well. He was really trying, Pierre decided silently, looking at Anatole's open and hopeful expression.

“Are you,” Pierre paused, then continued with an air of confidence. “Are you free tonight? Natasha is going to be out with Sonya, and that usually ends with the two going back to their own apartment.”

That strange, brotherly affection bloomed in Pierre’s broad chest once again as a relieved grin split Anatole's face. “Thank you,” he breathed, and then his thin arms were wrapping around Pierre, not coming remotely close to encircling him. Pierre was frozen with shock and he didn't have time to react before Anatole was patting his arm, thanking him several more times, and running off.

Pierre blinked, bewildered by the blur of the past minutes. It seemed to him that the day could not get stranger.

And it didn’t, for some time. Pierre’s day was as routine as it always was, the classes the same as before, the arguments held with the morons the same, and Anatole’s visit that night slipped his mind as quickly as Anatole himself had done earlier. He was hardly prepared for Anatole’s appearance when the sharp knock on his door came at nearly seven that evening.

Pierre let Anatole into his apartment, and he noticed again just how small and tense Anatole looked in this setting. His shoulders- which usually sat perfectly postured, calculated even when he was slouched just feeling the effects of whatever alcohol he had consumed- were drawn forwards with anxiety. His regal head was dipped slightly, and he seemed unable to bring his eyes up to meet Pierre’s fully.

The contrast to the nervous yet hopeful boy he had invited over that morning was jarring, but Pierre could see reason for it.  
Anatole had said that Helene and Dolokhov, and therefore Ippolit, who was in France, did not know. Going behind their backs to see Pierre was undoubtedly something new for him. He was used to freely doing what he wanted, and having their support- for better or for worse.

Pierre led Anatole over to the table where they had sat and spoken last. Anatole sat stiffly as Pierre fixed tea once again.

“So, what happened?” Pierre asked as gently as he could, setting the mugs down and sitting.

Anatole didn't speak at first, instead wrapped his hands around the mug. He took a deep, shaky breath and, at long last, met Pierre's eyes.

“I tried to- do something for Fedya this morning. And he- I thought it was a good thing to do. And he was happy at first. He looked happy. Then-” Anatole swallowed thickly and turned his eyes to the dark tea.  
“He got all quiet. And closed off, and the way he was rushing to get out the door- it was so confusing Pierre!”

A crease formed in Pierre’s brow as he frowned. It seemed to him that there was a piece of the story that, possibly, even Anatole did not know.  
“I can't see anything wrong with what you did. Could you have said anything to upset him, Anatole?”

Anatole shook his head, his eyes wide and desperate. “No- we, it was quiet. And that's what's wrong! I did everything right!” He let out a high noise of frustration and buried his face in his hands. “I was so sure, Pierre. He looked so pleased.”

As Pierre opened his mouth to offer words of comfort to the miserable boy- he felt sorrow at the plan gone wrong and pride in the attempt that Anatole had made- a knock sounded at the door. He turned quickly, then fished his phone out of his pocket.

Newly Melted Heart❤️  
9:01PM  
I’m going out to meet Sonya now love, I'll text you when I get home!

Newly Melted Heart❤️  
9:20PM  
Okay bad news is that Sonya had to cancel  
But the good news is she finally got that girl she's been drooling over to go out with her,  
And I get to spend the night with you! I don't really want to go back while Marya has Hélène over

Newly Melted Heart❤️  
9:32PM  
Pierre? I'm heading up the stairs now, I hope you didn't fall asleep lol

When Pierre looked up with dread, Anatole was staring at him, shock and panic making his already pale skin drain of color. “You said- you said she wouldn't be-”

“Pierre?” Natasha's muffled voice sounded from outside of the door. “Pierre? I don't want to go back to Marya’s please tell me you're not asleep.”

Anatole motioned with frantic movements, “Pierre, sit down if she leaves I can sneak out and- Pierre, sit down!”  
But something within Pierre had snapped. Pulled apart by the tense moment and the knowledge that he had to tell Natasha the truth, and that the result of this night would be ugly. She would hate him for allowing Anatole into the apartment. Pierre leaned over the table, grasped Anatole by the collar, and lifted their faces close together.

“Are you suggesting that I lie to her?” Pierre asked, outraged.

“No I just- Pierre, Pierre please- I’m sorry!” Anatole gasped, struggling. He was scrabbling at Pierre’s large fist and shaking with fear.

“Pierre? What's going on?! Are you okay in there?”

In lieu of an answer, Pierre dragged Anatole around the table. A mug dropped to the floor, shattering, and Natasha sounded more and more frantic as she pounded at the door.

“You are a rat, a vile worm. This, all of this is because of you,” Pierre said in a fit of thoughtless panic induced anger. He was blinded by the need to escape this awful moment. Anatole stayed silent, having gone weak with terror. “You are not to come anywhere near us again, even if I can somehow explain this!”

And, as they had reached the door, Pierre yanked it open and tossed Anatole out. Natasha let out a startled yelp, staring at Anatole in horror.

The boy had crumpled to the carpeted floor with a gasp. He staggered upright, shaking and looking faint. “I- didn't mean for this- for-” Anatole met Natasha's eyes, and seemed to break. “I’m sor- sorry. It's not his fault, I asked for help- I took advantage of his generosity- don't be angry with him.”

Anatole's eyes flicked to Pierre, and the ghost of that regal and confident attitude he usually wore passes of him. Then a look of resignation, and Pierre forgot to breathe. Anatole was covering for him, was directing any anger Natasha might have to himself to save Pierre and their relationship.

“Anatole-” Natasha was looking at him with large, frightened eyes. She felt as though she was in some dream. Some impossible scenario where Anatole came back for her.  
And she glanced at Pierre, who stood, red-faced and panting, and so very angry, but waiting for her to make her choice.  
And she remembered just how lost she had felt the last time Anatole had left her.

Her jaw tightened with a rage she hadn't known she had saved up. All of the months spent regretting Anatole flooded back to her and burst from her lips.

“You! You are an idiot of you think that you can waltz back into my life and take advantage of Pierre. Just like you took advantage of me!” Natasha bit out, and watched with a fiery satisfaction as Anatole shrunk back.

Pierre stood quietly, paralyzed with the knowledge of what Anatole was doing, but he didn't speak. He did not know what to do but let Anatole take the fall for him.

“I knew that your awful sister was just lying her way into our house that it was just a plan to finish the job of destroying us for your own benefits. Oh, wait until Marya hears this.” The image of her wonderful and kind friend sleeping peacefully with Helene flashed through her mind, and her blood boiled.

“None you are to come anywhere _near us_ , starting now! Go!” And Anatole fled, leaving Pierre to look upon Natasha in shocked awe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you enjoyed, and feedback is always appreciated!!  
> (@thatstupidchild on tumblr)


	10. I Dont Deserve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if y'all were in the mood for a little danatole fluff..

“Thank you, yes- thank you Mrs. Pavlovna. Have a good night.”

Andrei kept the benign expression on his face until he was out of the building. When the door clicked shut behind him, he allowed himself to lean against the brick wall. Ignoring the cold permeating through his coat, he ran a tired hand over his face.

Sleep had escaped him in the past week, and rest had become something of a distant fantasy. The guilt and the regret and the longing had grown inside of him, twisting into something ugly and parasitic. It was draining him of that stoic power he had prided himself in having.

Keeping his grades up was a sudden and unprecedented struggle, and Andrei had started to admit to himself that- just possibly- he needed help.

It was strange and a morbid sort of amusing, Andrei hadn't realized how much he had with Natasha and Pierre. Their soft, earnest care for him and their ability to pull a real smile onto his face had left him cold and stony.

Andrei sighed, watching his breath fog the cold air, and pushed himself away from the wall, starting on his walk to his apartment. A cold wind wound its way through the threads of his light coat, and he shivered, wondering momentarily if it was worth calling a cab for the short trip.

He decided against it, and trudged on.

He had turned down a street, so close to his apartment, when he heard hard, heavy breathing mingle with the breeze. Frowning, Andrei slowed so a stop, listening for the direction of the noises. With caution, he followed the panting, now intermingled with fits of coughing. Whoever it was sounded weak, and they weren't moving from wherever they were.

There was a thin figure doubled over in the dim light of a street lamp. One pale hand was pulling the hood of a jacket down, obscuring their face. The other was under the hood, and Andrei guessed that it was covering the mouth of whoever it was.

Andrei’s footsteps didn't seem to alert the figure to his presence, so he put a tentative hand on one of the quaking shoulders. “Hey, are you alright?” He said, then recoiled when the figure turned their face up in surprise.

Anatole Kuragin looked back at a him, pale and terrified.

Before Andrei could react, Anatole had skittered a few paces back. He was still breathing hard, and his eyes seemed to be glassy from some sort of fever.

A horrid rasping passed through his lips, and he coughed, hard, nearly falling over. He held a shaking hand in front of him, as though he was expecting some attack.

“Why the hell are you outside at ten at night with a fever, Kuragin.”

Anatole looked at Andrei, shocked at the flat, apathetic tone of his voice. Shocked that Andrei wasn't angry. “Needed to- help. Needed help.” He said, his voice breaking and cutting off in that horrid rasp.

Andrei himself was shocked at how void he was of emotion. He had imagined this moment, a year ago, as a point where he would let Anatole know just how much of a mistake he had made.

But he had cowered at the sight of Andrei, frightened of him before Andrei could so much as speak. It was truly pitiful.

“What you need is to be inside. Asleep. And tomorrow you need to see a doctor.”

Anatole looked as though he wanted to dispute this, but he was wracked with another bout of coughing. Andrei took that as his cue to fish his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m calling Dolokhov. It’s right to assume that the two of you are still attached by the hip.” Andrei asked, closing the feet between them to push Anatole down until he was sitting. He received a withering look, but Anatole nodded nonetheless.

The night had taken a surreal turn, he reflected as he listened to the dial tone on his phone. From running into Anatole, deciding to help the pathetic boy, and then calling Dolokhov, with whom he hadn't spoken to in at least two years.

“Hello? Who is this.” Dolokhov's harsh voice was edged with some emotion. Annoyance, or perhaps fear.

“Andrei. Andrei Bolkonsky.”

“Bolkonsky? Jesus, I haven't heard from you in a while. What's going on?”

Anatole looked up, wheezing slightly at the strained angle. Andrei just raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, I stumbled across Kuragin having some coughing fit when I was walking home. He's not in any place to walk anywhere, and I’d like to ask you to do something about it. I don't think you can blame me for not wanting to spend more time than I have to on him.”

Dolokhov swore loudly, and Andrei could hear rustling and the jangling of keys. “So that's where he fucked off to. The fool. Okay, if you give me the address I'll be there in five.”  
Andrei relayed the address, and Dolokhov hung up, still murmuring creative insults about Anatole.

As headlights illuminated the end of the streets, Anatole whispered something, tipping his head back to look at Andrei again.

“What was that?” Andrei asked, stooping slightly.

“Thank you. You- didn't have to do th-is.” Anatole broke off with a cough and snapped his head forwards when he heard a Dolokhov get out of the car.

“Fe-dya!” Anatole began to stand, staggering. Andrei reached out arm to catch him, but Dolokhov was already there. The shorter collapsed into his arms, and Dolokhov let out a little ‘oof’ in surprise.

“You didn't tell me you were sick,” he said, adding on more fondly, "you fool." He wrapped an arm around Anatole's waist and turned his dark, attentive eyes to Andrei. “Thank you for calling me, Bolkonsky. I know he's the last person you'd want to take care of.”

Andrei was taken aback by Dolokhov’s acknowledgement of the affair between Anatole and Natasha, but simply nodded. “It is no matter anymore. You're welcome.”

Dolokhov nodded at him, the trace of a smile crinkling his eyes, before he bent and lifted Anatole. Andrei could hear his quiet admonishments as he carried Anatole to the passenger seat.

Through the dark window, Andrei could see Dolokhov lean over and smooth Anatole’s hair back. Then he said something that made Anatole roll his eyes and smile drowsily, and Dolokhov pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

As he drove off, he gave Andrei a little salute, and Andrei was left alone.

The cold night air seemed to be magnified by the warm, tender moment he had just witnessed. The affection with which Dolokhov had treated Anatole, the way he hadn't asked what Anatole needed, because he didn't have to. They knew each other too well for that.

It was all so painfully clear to Andrei: They knew each other the way he and Pierre had known each other. The way that he had started to know Natasha.

He finished the short walk to his apartment, legs stiff with cold. All the while, regret at having left Natasha alone for so long when he could have been there for her. He had been enough for her, then.

But he hadn't realized what he had until they were gone. And he knew that he would have to live with that truth indefinitely. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you enjoyed, and feedback makes me so happy to see! 
> 
> @thatstupidchild on tumblr :)


	11. Sonya Is Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let helene be Soft

_“It is so impossible to get anything through to you, what don't you understand about that!” Hélène hissed out, glaring at her younger brother. Anatole rolled his eyes. He was acting as though the tense, angry charge between the two wasn't getting to him, but genuine fights lint this were rare and unnerving to all of them.  
They didn't happen when all three of the siblings were together._

_But all three of them weren't there. Ippolit was in France, and Hélène and Anatole were too stubborn to call him to mediate._

_“Neither have you! Neither has Ippolit! You can’t pretend to be better than us just because you're better at pretending- better at lying.” He said, drawing out the last word with theatrical contempt._

_“What the fuck is that supposed to mean, ‘better at pretending’? Huh? What would you know about pretending?” Hélène fumed. “You've never hidden anything in your life, Anatole- you've never cared enough to.”_

_It wasn't true, and they both knew it- Anatole was a walking mask, distant and strictly adherent to his personal rules of ‘do, and, ‘don't’- even in his most impulsive decisions. To watch Anatole in public, and even in the private company of his siblings, was to watch an elaborate performance. It's was all a delicately cultivated ruse.  
Helene knew this, of course. She knew this, and she didn’t care. She was blinded by offense and anger, and she wanted to draw blood in return._

_She took a step closer to Anatole, their lips curling and mirroring each other with identical sneers. Matched in their mannerisms as they were in their spite. “You just see something shiny and go after it. Some mindless animal that knows nothing but how to pleasure itself.”_

_“And you're any different? You don't fucking get to put yourself above me, Hélène! At least I didn't try to appease Dad by sticking myself in a marriage at nineteen, and then have to get divorce a year later. Don't act like you know what you're doing.” Anatole said, his shoulders tightening._

_“Yeah, I might work to appease him, but at least I'm not growing to be like him.” Hélène cut herself off, only registering her mistake after she had made it. “Anatole…”_

_Anatole had frozen, eyes wide with hurt. His mouth hung open just slightly, lips curving around words he couldn't find the strength to say. Hélène watched the fight drain from her little brother all at once, his posture going slack as he drew into himself. Guilt and panic welled up in Hélène’s chest, and she reached toward him._

_“Anatole, I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it.”_

_But Anatole was shaking his head, silent and cold. He looked at Hélène, and Hélène was reminded of the looks he would give the businessmen his father would introduce them to when they were children. Mistrustful and cold._

_Anatole snagged his jacket from where it had been cast aside on the couch. His hands shook as he fumbled with the zipper, starting to move towards the door._

_“Anatole-”_

_“No, Hélène. Just- leave it. I want to be alone.”_

_And with a swirl of green fabric, he was gone._

_Hélène stood, frozen to the spot, until the reality of what had just happened slammed into her. At once, the apartment felt too hot, suffocating her. The walls seemed to close in, and Hélène blinked back tears. She needed to get out. Needed to clear her head._

_“Shit. Shit!” She hissed, pulling a sweater over head and taking her boots on roughly. She had been afraid that this would happen. Without Ippolit around, they had no balance, no mediator. Just as Ippolit and Anatole would be without Hélène, and how Ippolit and Hélène would be without Anatole. The three needed each other, and Ippolit’s absence had set the two on edge._

_But she wouldn't tell him that anything had happened. Didn't want to ruin his last month in France by making him worry about her and Anatole._

_Hélène sucked in lungfuls of crisp fall air, trying to get a hold of herself. Without a destination in mind, she set off. The angry, overcast sky seemed to mirror her mood._

_The images of the fight looped in her head, again and again and again, until tears ran cold tracks down her face and she could not see.  
She closed her eyes, pressing her palms over them to block out the world._

“Hélène?”

The soft voice and the hand on her knee made Hélène start backwards in confused shock. Sonya Rostova had knelt in front of her, and was looking up at her with wide, concerned eyes.

“I’m sorry,” they said softly. “You were crying really hard and Marya said to wake you if you had a nightmare.”

“I,” Hélène trained off, still groggy and disoriented. “Yes- thank you, Sonya.” She turned away, rubbing at her eyes roughly.

Soft, delicate hands pulled Helene's away, and she looked up in confusion. “What are you- what are you doing?” She whispered. Instead of answering, Sonya sat down on the couch next to her, and began wiping her face with a damp cloth. Helene was too shocked at the gentle care to move, and sat tensely, shoulders hunched as Anatole's had been.

After a moment, Sonya noticed and shook their head, giving Hélène a small smile. “Marya didn't tell me what to do after I woke you up. But when I catch her crying, when she thinks she's home alone I- do this.”

They began dabbing around Helene’s eyes, where her heavy makeup was smudged from tears and sleep. Hélène, between the softness of the explanation and the care and focus displayed on Sonya's face, melted into their touch and allowed the younger person to care for her without interruption.

Where had Marya gone? The clock read 10:15, and the moonlight gleamed softly through the window. Marya would have been in the apartment. She would have been asleep.   
She would have been asleep with Hélène.

Hélène kept her questions to herself, brushed them to the side for the sake of steadying her shaking breath.

After they had finished, Sonya took Hélène’s hand, and stood. “Come on, let's get you changed so you can sleep- or not. Just- let's get you into something more comfortable. Yeah?”

Hélène followed quietly and without protest. Sleep sounded amazing, but she knew that as soon as she shut her eyes and dozed off, she would have to relive the fight.

When she had changed, Sonya brought her a hairbrush.   
“So, do you want to sleep or…?” They said, and Helene shook her head.

“No. I can't have that- I- no. I don't.” Helene cringed at how weak she sounded in that moment. Her raw, shaking voice betraying just how lost and alone she felt, not to mention in front of someone she barely knew.

Someone that she barely knew. Someone who had chosen to help Helene regardless of her role in the failed affair between their cousin and Helene’s brother.

But she still closed her eyes and turned away, screwing her eyes up against the tears welling in them. She was shaking, feeling small and alone without her brothers.

“Hey, shh, it's okay. Hey,” Sonya had walked around her, and lifted Helene's chin up so that their eyes met. “It's okay to cry. I won't tell.”

Sonya's gentleness and their kind, understanding eyes undid Helene, and a sob burst out of her. They wrapped their arms around Helene, and guided her over to her bed.

Helene didn't have the energy to hold herself back. The sleepless nights had added up, and she let go, tucking her arms around herself, she allowed Sonya to hold her, stroking her hair and whispering quiet comforts.

For the second time that night, she dozed off, but she felt strangely secure. The last thing she felt was a hand stroking her hair with a firm but soft touch. The last thing she heard was words of kindness, words of reassurance.

Hélènes last, mumbled words, were those of thanks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you liked it, and feedback is always amazing!


	12. Expressed Confusion, and Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> relationship problems! ft. there's gonna be a point where this stops being soft i promise

Natasha stood stiffly, eyes vacant and panicked and trained on the stairs that Anatole had fled onto. Her throat was tight with shock and panic, and she couldn't seem to process what had just happened.

“Natasha,” Pierre said, barely above a whisper, and touched his hand to hers.

Jolting into motion as if electrified, she pulled away from her boyfriend. “Pierre- Pierre why didn't you tell me? Why did you- why Anatole?” She had that look about her, haunted and hunted and hurt all at once, and Pierre felt his heart fracture.

“He followed me home last week- left just before you came to sleep over. I- Natasha I didn't think he would ask again.” Pierre said helplessly. “He seemed so genuine- I-” he trailed off, unsure and unwilling to say anything for fear of making the situation worse.

“Anatole. Pierre, out of anyone in our lives. You let Anatole back into your life and-” she paused, swallowing thickly and crossing her arms over her. “And you didn't tell me. You didn't think to tell me, Pierre. Why?”

Her watery brown eyes met his and Pierre wrung his hands together, distressed. “I thought to- but. He was my friend Natasha. And- he's stupid and self centered but-”

“But?” Natasha sniffed, looking at Pierre with a closed, suspicious expression. Pierre made to reach out to her again, and stopped when she pulled away.

“But he would come to me before and ask for help and- I don't know, Natasha. He seemed to be listening to me again.”

Natasha was shaking her head, rubbing a hand over her eyes with a tired resignation. “Okay- we. I need time. I need time to calm down before we talk about this. Will- will you be alright if I go back to my place tonight?”

Pierre wanted to object, but the terror of seeing Natasha leave his life with the raging fight he and Andrei had made him give her a small, watery smile. “I’ll be fine Tasha. Let me know when you're ready to talk, yes?”

Natasha nodded, and she saw her own relief mirrored in Pierre's face. She stepped forward, pressing her lips chastely to his, then turning away quickly. She knew that it was better to let herself calm down. Not to stay and fight because she wanted to be around Pierre. Things would look better in the morning. They would look better in the morning and everything would be alright.

Behind her, she heard the door of Pierre’s apartment close, and she stopped, rubbing roughly at her eyes as she convinced herself not to go back. Things would be better in the morning.

To her great surprise, Marya’s car was parked before the door of the building, and Marya herself leaned on the passenger side, facing the door. When she stepped out, Marya looked up and gave her a kind smile as she took in the younger girl’s confused expression.

“Pierre called me. He said that you two had a fight and that he was afraid for you when you decided to come home.” She explained, voice soft.   
Tears welled up in Natasha eyes for a second time, and she nodded soundlessly, knowing that if she tried to speak, what had happened would spill from her lips, and Marya would interfere. Marya didn’t press her on the matter, only opened the passenger door for her, then let herself in.

Natasha shut her eyes as the car rolled into motion, wanting to block out the world. Marya hummed softly, in the way she knew calmed Natasha when little else would, and before long, Natasha was asleep.

Marya parked the car, and shifted to look at her friend, sleeping peacefully with a small smile on her lips, and smiled herself. Natasha may have grown wiser in the past year, but she hadn't lost that childish innocence.

Marya hoped that she never did.

Natasha barely stirred as Marya lifted her out of the car, just turned her face into the crook of Marya’s neck and mumbled something. A soft, unconscious smile quirked the side of Marya's mouth up.

She loved the two cousins more than anything else in her life. And- despite her concerns about the fight between Pierre and Natasha- she knew that they would work it out. Things were better than the year before. They had to be, and Marya had taken on the job of ensuring that.

The door swung open to reveal a dim and peaceful apartment. The warm gold light from a lamp in the kitchen made the deep red of the furniture and the stain of the wood look so inviting, so secure, and Marya felt her heart swell.

Carefully, she brushed her lips over Natasha's forehead, before maneuvering Natasha into her own room and bed. She toed off a shoe and kicked the covers back, set Natasha down, and pulled the covers up around her chin.

Natasha's eyes fluttered open and she smiled at Marya, innocent and kind.

“Goodnight, Natalya.” Marya said.

“G’night Marya,” Natasha said, already drifting off again. Marya shook her head with fond affection, and left, closing the door behind herself.

A light shone beneath Sonya's door down the hall, and Marya remembered with a sudden urgency, that she had left Hélène to Sonya's care. She didn't believe that Hélène had been awful to Sonya, judging by how quiet the house was- but nothing could have prepared her for the sight she walked into.

Sonya was curled around Hélène in their sleep, protective and soft. Their red hair was loose and splayed around them in a fiery fan, and a ghost of that kind, sweet smile that they shared with their cousin graced their face.

It was Hélène that made Marya’s breath catch in her throat, however.

Her arms were tucked over her stomach and her head rested against Sonya's chest. Fresh tear tracks were still present on her face, and even as she slept, her breath hitched with sobs.

She was in so much pain, Marya thought as the smile slid off of her face. It was replaced by something mournful, yet affectionate. Mournful that such a strong girl was hurting so badly and scarred so deeply, and affectionate because she seemed to have trusted Sonya.  
Marya hoped that Hélène was beginning to trust her too.

Pulling a soft blanket out of Sonya’s closet, she tucked it around the two of them. Brushing Sonya’s bangs back from their face Marya leaned across Hélène’s sleeping form and kissed their forehead. She pulled back, beginning to straighten up, when Hélène shifted, blinking up at her with bleary confusion.

Without speaking, she reached up a hand, clumsy with sleep, and gripped Marya's sweater. She pulled gently until Marya's face was close to her own and gave Marya a tired smile, then craned her head up to press her lips against Marya's cheek.

Marya stood stooped and frozen with shock as Hélène melted back into the bed, drifting off as her hand dropped, landing over Sonya's hip.

As she processed what had just happened, she shook her head at the clear and vulnerable display of affection. She touched her hand to her own cheek where Helene's lips had pressed, and let a grin break over her face. She flicked the light off and closed the door, before collapsing against the wall and holding her hands over her heart. Something beautiful and restless bloomed in her chest, something beautiful and _important_.

Marya fell asleep in her own bed, the same smile still softening her hard face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you enjoyed, and feedback is always nice to hear!! 
> 
> (come scream w me about gc on tumblr @cryagainstyourcheek !)


	13. Back, And Back, And Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's a little snippet of how the pierre & anatole scene played out in this au. i wrote this and originally wasn't going to add it, but it explains the context of some interactions a bit more.

_Anatole sat with Hélène on the stairs, his head resting in her lap as he cried. He shouldn't have cared about the whole ordeal, Natasha was just a naive girl. It wasn't as if he hadn't done this before, but as he felt the weight of a wallet in his pocket, he realized that it wasn't her. At least, not singularly about her._

_It was guilt. Guilt for Hélène and Fedya. Hélène who was stuck with him, as she had been since he was born. And Fedya. Fedya, who dropped him off without speaking a word to him. Fedya, led him to the door and left without making sure Anatole was let in for the first time._

_Anatole couldn't recall seeing Fedya that upset in all their years of friendship. But he couldn't figure out why. He'd stuck by Anatole for years of scandal and poorly thought out decisions, but now he was angry._

_The door slammed downstairs and Hélène jerked back. Anatole sat up, panic written across his face as he heard Pierre call his name. It was a growl that seemed to rattle through the walls, and had Hélène pale as death. Anatole wrapped an arm around his older sister, but she seemed to snap out of whatever dazed panic she was trapped in, and she held him hunched over her legs again._

_Anatole was more alarmed by the way Hélène whimpered than Pierre's heavy footsteps drawing closer to him._

_And then, as Pierre entered the stairwell, he felt her put on that carefully trained mask. The hand fisted in the back of his shirt was the only remaining sign of what he knew lay underneath the act._

_“Oh Pierre, you wouldn't believe how awful this night has been for our poor Anatole.”_

_“Be quiet.”_

_Anatole forced his way up as Hélène’s grip on him loosened. The unadulterated fear on his sister’s face lit a fire in his chest, angry and indignant and roaring. Anatole took her hand._

_“You don't deserve a greeting. You are repulsive and filthy. Anatole, I need to speak with you.”_

_Hélène was frozen to the spot, but Anatole, burning with rage at Pierre's words to his sister, stood and followed him down._

_Pierre didn't so much as look at Anatole as he slammed the door to his study. “You promised Natasha that you would marry her. You were going to elope. Is this true?”_

_Anatole scoffed, crossing to Pierre's desk and sitting. “Dear Pierre,” he sneered as he propped his feet up on the desk. “I don't believe that I am obligated to answer you if you take that tone with my sister and I.”_

_Within the next moment, Anatole understood with jarring clarity why Hélène had been so terrified._

_Pierre had two big hands fisted in the front of his shirt, shaking Anatole back and forth as though he was nothing more than a small child._

_“When tell you I need to speak with you, I expect you to listen.” An undignified cry spilled from Anatole's lips as Pierre shoved him away._  
_His palms stung as they hit the edge of the desk._

_“Come on, Pierre, this is stupid.” He tried, holding his shaking hands in front of him in surrender. Pierre lunged towards him again, hand wrapping around Anatole's throat._  
_“What are you- don't, don't!” Anatole’s voice broke as his back hit the desk. Pierre leaned over him, red faced and holding a paper weight like a club over his head. ._

_“You bastard. You lying, cheating, shameful child.” Anatole’s blood thrummed loudly in his ears, and his mind went fuzzy with panic and lack of air. He tried in vain to pry Pierre's fingers off of him._

_“Nothing is here to deprive me of the pleasure of smashing your head in with this.” He raised the weight as if to strike Anatole with the metal edge. A strangled noises clawed its way out of Anatole's throat and he flinched, eyes screwed shut._

_The strike never came_

_“First, you show give me those stupid letters the two of you exchanged, and second you must leave the state. Go back to your father.” Without thinking, Anatole nodded in agreement, now struggling to breathe in earnest._

_Pierre released him roughly, but kept a hand clutched in Anatole’s shirt, so similar yet so different from Hélène. Anatole held his own throat, pulling in ragged breaths as he tried to clear his head._

_“Third, you must keep quiet about this.” Pierre shoved the desk chair at Anatole, the gentle concern he usually bore shining through the murky anger so foreign to his face._  
_Anatole coughed out a, “thank you,” and sat heavily._

_“Anatole- your actions have consequences. You can't ruin girls lives just because it pleases you. Because it amuses you.”_

_Two small shadows disrupted the strip of light shining under the door, and Anatole forced himself not to watch them pass. He didn't want Hélène to be dragged further into this, especially as she was monitoring him and Pierre. While she was making sure he was safe._

_“Amuse yourself with women like my wife,” Pierre spat, and a the initial anger Anatole had felt was re-kindled. He heard a stifled cry from where Hélène was listening. “With that, you're within your right. But to fool a young girl into running off with you? You must understand that it's as cruel as beating a child.”_

_Any sense of self preservation fled Anatole, replaced by the ghost of Pierre's hand around his throat, the words he had used towards Hélène, and the knowledge that he had to have hurt her in some way for her to have such a genuine reaction._

_“I don't understand that, not if the words are coming from you. Not after I've seen how you treat Hélène! You talk about caring for women-for children! So, I’ll listen to you when you listen to yourself.” Anatole’s smug smile had returned to his face, and he looked powerful in the dim light, with the hand-shaped bruise dusting across his pale neck._

_In that moment, Pierre had never felt more disgust or fury for one person. It seemed to radiate out of his shaking arms as he grabbed Anatole once again. With a yell, he raised the paperweight, and struck Anatole._

_Anatole’s head snapped back, and vaguely, he registered something wet dripping down his temple, onto his cheek. The study door slammed open, Hélène’s furious voice drowned out Pierre’s frantic stuttering. Her arm encircled Anatole’s waist, supporting him as he listed to the side._

_A new voice entered the room. Fedya. Hélène must have texted him while she was listening in._  
_Anatole was shifted into stronger arms, one of his own thrown over Dolokhov’s shoulders._

_Anatole felt himself being guided quickly, and finally his legs were swept off the floor. He whimpered faintly as his injured temple fell against Fedya’s shoulder._

_Cold air hit his bare arms, and then he was lowered gently into a car. Someone- Hélène, was next to him, speaking softly to him. She was holding something to his head, supporting his neck as they sped off._

_Time seemed to flicker away, and then return jarringly to Anatole. There was a dull ache in his temple, and the dim light burned his eyes. He kept them open anyway, squinting to make out the figure beside him._

_Shutting his eyes, Anatole reached towards the person, and felt a strong, calloused hand take his._

_“Fedya?” Anatole breathed._

_“Yes, Tolya. I’m right here.” Fedya said, and Anatole tried not to wince at the noise. “Can I help you sit up?” Anatole mouthed his approval, and before he could begin to struggle up, Fedya was cradling his head, lifting him gently._

_A glass was pressed to his lips, and Anatole drank deeply, the cool water a nice contrast to the awful headache he had. “You're angry with me.” Anatole said after a few moments._

_“You scared the hell out of Hélène and I, Anatole.”_

_“Fedya,” he said, trailing off as he tried to remember. Pierre had wanted to talk to him, and he was angry with Anatole. But Anatole had been angry as well- something about Hélène, and all he could remember after that was pain. “Pierre- Pierre did this?”_

_“Yeah, a hell of a time for you to start to show compassion.” Dolokhov said bitterly, then sighed. “It doesn't matter. Try to go back to sleep.”_

_But Anatole was as awake as he could be. He tightened his grip on Fedya’s hand, knowing that if Fedya really wanted to leave, he could and would. “You're angry with me.” He said again._

_Fedya made a noise of exasperation, and Anatole flinched back in pain._

_“You tried to elope, and then went and got yourself a concussion.”_

_Anatole looked at Fedya, confused and indignant. After all, he had helped him the most, had discouraged him the least. “You helped me with that first bit, Fedya.”_

_The glare and sadness he received in response threw him off. Anatole sank down into the pillows, still holding onto Fedya as a stubborn child might have. “I really don't understand. What am I missing?”_

_Finally, Fedya wrenched his hand away from him. “You don't understand because it's not something you need to know. And you don't need to know, because if you did, you'd use it to your advantage like everything else that comes in contact with you.”_

_Hurt and confusion filled Anatole, and he reached tentatively towards Fedya in his speechless stupor._

_Fedya held Anatole's helpless gaze for a long moment, seeming to fight with himself. And his angry eyes softened. He leaned over Anatole, smoothing his hair back gently._

_Anatole lost any grasp on what was happening, staying silent and letting his eyes slip closed again. The fingers petting his hair, the silence and the darkness and the easing of his headache began to lull him into a doze._

_“I’m more angry with myself than I am with you Tolya, but I hope this is the end of your stupid affairs. Let's keep it down to one-night-stands, yeah?”_

_Anatole grinned slowly, his pounding head sluggishly processing the joke, then the nickname. He nodded, and Fedya's hand cupped the side of his face. A rough thumb stroked over Anatole's cheek, and he pressed into the contact._

_Dolokhov chuckled lightly, and began to stroke Anatole's hair again. “Can you go back to sleep for me?”_

_The gentle, kind request made a foreign emotion crackle through Anatole, but he had already melted back into the bed, too far gone to examine it, so he let it go._  
_Instead, he nodded, and without thinking, took Fedya's hand, pressed a kiss to it, and put it back in his hair._

_He fell asleep to the sound of Fedya's affectionate, breathy laugh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you enjoyed, and feedback is always awesome to read!


	14. There Is Nothing Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my updates have been a bit erratic, so here’s a chapter with a 3000+ word count to make up for it :)

  
_Andrei let himself into Pierre’s apartment, face stony, clear of any emotion. His friend looked up from the couch where he had been reading- or trying to read- the bottle of whisky on the table told more of a story to Andrei than anything._

_“Well,” he said, removing his gloves and not sitting when Pierre patted the cushion next to him. “How are you?” They had not spoken in a while. Andrei had grown distant from him as he grew closer with Natasha, than distant from her as well._

_“You look a mess, old friend.” Pierre said, by way of answering the question. The look on his face always threw Andrei. He was always so open, so vulnerable._

_“It's good to see you,” Andrei tried, judging pierres response by the way a drunken smile passed over his face. “I've been distant for… too long.” The admission revealed more to Pierre than Andrei intended, and he pushed himself up, standing shakily. He crossed to Andrei and took his hand._

_“My friend, you need- help. Your face is gloomy.” Pierre said, hushed as though Andrei might crumble._

_“No. I am fine.” He said forcefully, removing his hand from Pierre’s. Stepping away, he rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I'm sorry for arriving without telling you, but Natasha has broken with me. And I've heard rumors of your… brother in law, trying to convince her to elope.” He met Pierre's eyes, watching as sadness clouded them. “Or something like that.”_

_“Yes- yes, something of that kind.”_

_With this affirmation, Andrei nodded, and the tell-tale tension in his jaw was the only sign that he was upset. He began to pull his gloves back on, turning towards the door. “Well, I'm sorry again for bothering you with this, goodni-”_

_Pierre caught his arm, his clumsy fingers digging in. When he spoke, his voice held a hint of desperation.“Natasha is ill- she has been at death’s door. Hospitalized. She's alive but Andrei she tried-”_

_“I much regret her illness.” Andrei cut him off, seething. Did Pierre not see that he was upset? Did he not understand that he wanted to be left alone? “I won't go to see her, if that's what you're suggesting, Pierre.” He said, trying to pull away. “It doesn't matter to me anymore.”_

_His friend released him then, looking at Andrei with horror, as if he had been struck with a horrible truth. “You told me to try to forgive Hélène, yet you acted as if you didn't care about Natasha long before any of this happened, and now you'll throw her away as if she's worthless.” Pierre said, slurring slightly, tears in his eyes._

_“Yes, I told you that. But I never said that I would be able to forgive if such a thing happened to me.” Andrei growled, hand on the doorknob. “I can't, Pierre. Ask for her love again, don't seek out other women… that would all be very good of me. But I can’t do that.”_

_Pierre looked angry, a foreign look on his sweet, round face. His cheeks were flushed, and his mouth turned down in a grimace. “She was lonely! You didn't talk to her as much as you would have if you claimed to live her as much as you say.” He said, loudly and angrily. “She was lonely and confused and younger than us, Andrei. She wanted to feel loved.”_

_“Then she could have asked!” Andrei shouted back._

_“Yes-” Pierre’s voice was suddenly thick with tears. “Yes of course. But then, she could have asked the same of a brick, and yielded the same results.” His last syllable was cut off as a sob bubbled up in his chest._

_“Excuse me?” Andrei said lowly, his face betraying none of the shock that had joined the tight ropes around his chest._

_“You heard me. You know that I'm right.” Pierre wiped at the tears running freely down his face. Andrei gritted his teeth and crossed to Pierre taking him by the shoulders. The plump man wasn't two inches shorter, but he cowered as if he were two feet shorter. “Andrei-”_

_“You want me to show you loneliness? Fine. Do not try to contact me. Do not speak to me.” The words burned Andrei as he spat them at Pierre. His best friend, gone. “Go off to Natasha, for all I care. Give her what you say that I did not. But do not come to me for friendship.” He released Pierre roughly, turning before he could see him stumble back, and before Pierre could see the tears prick at Andrei’s eyes_.

They had not spoken after that day, and Andrei regretted his words more and more with each passing moment. Pierre had been right. He was always right, and he always had been when it came to Andrei. But it was Andrei’s own fault that he was alone, without Pierre or Natasha to confide in.

He had given up trying to push the memories away that day, as he walked down the cold streets in a vain attempt to clear his head.

Andrei closed his eyes as he rounded a corner, sighing in defeat. As time drew closer to the events of the winter before, everything seemed to be more present.

And then, felt himself walk into someone. Rather, a young woman who gave a yelp as she tripped, nearly hitting the ground. Stumbling, Andrei caught her from falling as she cried out. His apology and rushed, “Are you alright-” were out of his mouth, before the woman turned, and Andrei felt as if all the air had been pushed out of his lungs with a solid blow to his ribs.

Natasha looked up at him with alarm in her wide eyes. Realizing he was still holding onto her, Andrei pulled away, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Natasha was looking at him with an equal amount of shock, her eyes wide like some hunted animal’s.

“Andrei,” she said softly, as if she couldn't believe he was standing there in front of her.

“Natasha.” Andrei replied, unable to move, unable to find words past her name. She was there, she was in front of him, and she did not look angry. No, she looked almost as though she wanted to say something.

Natasha smiled tentatively up at him. “Deja vu,” she said, barely above a whisper. Andrei let out a laugh, surprised. It was true- they had first met, Natasha had walked into him at a party that Ilya had thrown. Andrei had steadied her, noting how absolutely radiant the girl was in her nervous, breathy laughter.

“Yes, deja vu.” He agreed, tone almost reverent. “Does this mean that I’m allowed to lead you to a table and talk with you?” Andrei said, instantly regretting it. He backpedaled quickly, “I mean- I know you have-”

“No! No, I mean.” Natasha waved a hand airily, a nervous habit. “Yes, I’d like to talk to you.” And she bit her lip in a failed attempt to hide her smile, and took his arm. “Should we- ah…”

“Would you like to get out of the cold and get something to eat?” Andrei supplied gently, remembering in full just how much he truly loved Natasha's company. He placed his hand over hers- her hands covered with those same soft white gloves to match her fur lined coat. Natasha nodded, grateful and they began to walk together, neither willing to let go before the other.

Once they were inside the cozy cafe, Andrei pulled out a chair for her, and went to the counter to order. He did not need to ask her order, and she didn’t try to give it, looking up at him with a trusting smile.

Andrei waited at the counter, trying to think of what to say to her once he had returned, mugs in hand. There had not been any anger in her open expression, and she had been clinging tightly to his arm and, well, Andrei could gather that she was not looking for serious conversation.

Still without anything to speak about, Andrei set the mugs down, then the bag with scones for the the two to share, as they used to.

“Thank you, Andrei,” Natasha said, softly, and blew gently on her tea. “How have you been,” she said, suddenly shy.

“I've been well,” he lied. He didn't have the heart to tell her how much he had fallen apart without his best friends. Natasha looked dubious at this, but let the comment pass. Whether Andrei escaped the skeptical analysis because things were still too awkward between them for serious conversation, or she simply did not feel the need to press him did not matter. He was grateful for the escape. “And you?”

“I-” Natasha's phone began to ring, and she apologized before looking at the caller. A shadow crossed her face and she declined the call, worrying her lip between her teeth. “I've been alright. Still trying to, you know. Patch things up.” She took a sip of tea, as if she had to force herself not to talk. Andrei was taken aback by her sadness. They were supposed to be happy so he could convince himself that _he_ was happy. She was with Pierre, she was still living with Marya and Sonya. Unless-

“Has something happened?” Andrei asked, ducking his head to try to make her meet his eyes.

Natasha gave a sad little laugh, looking torn. “Yes I- I've had a fight with Pierre. He- went behind my back to do something and I…” she trailed off, tears sparkling on her eyelashes. “I know I haven't been the most trustworthy. I _know_ that. But he- _Anatole_ was in our apartment last night, Andrei.”

Andrei felt anger burn in his chest. Last night, Anatole had been running from Natasha. And Andrei had helped the pathetic bastard. He should have left him in the cold. But then, he had been in their apartment, which must have meant that Pierre brought him there. “Natalia, how did he get in?”

“Pierre.” The word sounded more like a sob than anything, and Andrei shook his head.

“I don't understand why he would do that. I would have thought that he knew how much it would upset you.”

Natasha glared down at her tea as if it had invited Anatole over instead of her boyfriend. “I would have thought that as well. But-” she let out a noise of distress- “I don't know what to think anymore. And I don't know who to tell.”

So she had turned to Andrei, when the chance had presented itself. The man watched her, contemplating what to say. He shouldn't have even been talking to Natasha, not after the fight that he and Pierre about her after she had poisoned herself. But in the context of Natasha's fight with Pierre, Andrei doubted that Pierre had told her.

“Natasha.” He said quietly after a moment. “Natasha, I’m glad you chose to tell me.” She smiled through her distress, and Andrei almost didn't have the heart to finish his thought. But he had to. For the sake of the people he loved, and who loved each other and did not love him, he had to. “But you should go to Pierre about this. Work things out between the two of you.”

Natasha pulled back, shrinking into herself and frowning at him. “You know him better than anyone,” she said, so innocently that Andrei flinched. She truly did not know.

“No,” Andrei replied shortly, burying the onslaught of emotions the admission brought. “I might have, before everything fell apart. But I don't think I know enough now to give you guidance on how to handle him. I'm sorry, Natasha. Really, I am.”

“I’m the one who should be apologizing, Andrei.” She said forcefully. “It's my fault. Don't be sorry for the repercussions of my mistakes.” Seeming to shrink down, she looked directly into his eyes. “I didn't get to say this last winter, but I'm sorry. For everything.”

“No, don't. Natasha, don't.” Andrei said, louder than he intended. Natasha froze, looking fearful, but Andrei sighed and shook his head slightly. “I know now that it's more complicated than you and- him. I was neglecting you. I should have showed you how deeply I love you when I had the chance.” He finished strongly. Natasha’s eyes widened, and he realized what he had said.

“Andrei.” She said, his name coming from her lips as a sigh, quiet and breathy. She wiped her eyes with her free hand- having taken his in her other- embarrassed at her own crying. “I've missed you.”

“And I've missed you.” He said, blinking back tears of his own. He wanted to hug her, then. He wanted to hug her and kiss her and ask for another chance. He wanted to-

But Pierre. He couldn't come between them when they had something so good. He would help Natasha fix her fight, and then he would fade out of their lives, just as he had the year before.

Accordingly, he pulled away, clearing his throat. “You should talk to Pierre after this. And answer his calls.”

“You should too.” Natasha said, reaching across the table and taking his hand back into hers. “Please. Come with me.”

“I shouldn't, Natasha our fight- we said things we shouldn't have and I do not know if we can fix-”

“Yes. Yes you can.” Natasha said, narrowing her eyes. “There's been something missing. Someone missing. I know that Pierre knows it too. And if I got a second chance, that means you get one too.”

Andrei gaped at her. He did not deserve this chance. He knew that he did not, but he nodded, unable to make himself disagree. He wanted this, and he wanted them. And if Natasha wanted him to come with her to fix things between the three of them, who was he to say no?

As it turned out, he wasn't one to say no, but Pierre was. Natasha pulled Andrei through the door behind her with a set determination, and announced loudly that she did, “not know or care what was said last year, or that you might not want to speak to each other, but you are going to, whether I have to handcuff you two together and leave you locked in some room or not.”

But Pierre seemed unphased by this threat, refusing even to look at Andrei as he stood awkwardly in the door. “Natasha,” he said tiredly. “He doesn't have a place in this.” Andrei felt as though Pierre had shot him in he chest. He had been right. He did not have a place here. He tried to pull away, but Natasha's hand slipped from his wrist to his hand, and she entwined their fingers.

“No,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “You have a place in this.” Then she turned back to Pierre. “Yes he does. You know that he does, Pierre. More than Anatole Kuragin, you must admit that at least. And you still saw fit to bring that rat here.” Natasha said, harsher than either man had ever heard her speak. Natasha was so sweet and kind, and her voice only rarely rose with something other than joy. “And you cannot talk about missing him then not look him in the eye when he's right here in front of you.”

Pierre opened his mouth to object, but his eyes flicked to Andrei, and he closed his mouth with a snap. He swallowed and waved a hand, turning to the kitchen. “Fine. Fine, I'll be there in a minute.”

Natasha led him over to the couch, still holding his hand. Andrei say beside her, looking to the doorway to the kitchen, a worried expression twisting his face. “Natasha, he isn't-”

“He's just making tea. It's what he does now instead of, well. You know.”  
Andrei nodded, relieved, and looked down at their hands, not knowing what else to do.

“Hey.” Natasha said quietly. “Andrei, look at me.” He did, and she gave him a confident and tender smile. “He does want you here. But you know that he's nervous. We all are. Yes?”

Andrei nodded, not entirely convinced. Pierre walked in then, holding three mugs carefully. He placed one in front of Natasha, the tea bag out, as she liked it. One in front of Andrei, and he was surprised to see the tea bag in, with a splash of cream. The nostalgia made tears prick his eyes. Pierre held his, and sat on Natasha's other side.

“Now, let's begin, gentlemen.” Natasha said, standing and walking around the coffee table to stand across from them. With her absence, she left no barrier between Pierre and Andrei. The two pointedly looked away from each other, and she made a noise of frustration. “Alright, yeah. No. You two will greet each other, and you will speak to each other. I know for a fact that you've missed him, Pierre. You've said it yourself- and Andrei? You have a right to be here.”

Pierre turned to meet Andrei’s downturned face first, seeming unable to restrain himself any longer. “Hello, Andrei.” He said softly. There was something like longing in his voice, and Andrei’s heart hammered. It was all so much. This is not what he had expected when he agreed to go along with Natasha, not that he had been expecting any of this.

Swallowing thickly, Andrei turned to Pierre, smiling gently, in spite of his jangling nerves. “Hi, Pierre.”

“Okay- god, this is like pulling teeth- we have a problem.” Natasha said, laughing mirthlessly. “We have a lot of problems, and we need to fix them. And I need both of your help and I need you to actually _talk_ , because it’s pretty obvious at this point that none of us can do anything without the other two.” Natasha turned her attention to Pierre. “I don’t know where to start.” She said, a bit hopelessly.

Pierre simply shrugged, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I don’t know either.”

“I do.” Andrei said. The two looked at him with mild shock. He set his gloves on the coffee table next to his mug and sat more comfortably. Control was something he could do, and planning was something he could do. So he would offer it here. “Let’s start from the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave kudos if you enjoyed, and comments make my day<3


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